


april in houston

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Complicated Relationships, Family, Lockdown Fic, M/M, Strifing (Homestuck), Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:07:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25817041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Dave and Bro isolate together. It only takes a week for tensions to spill over.
Relationships: Dave's Bro | Beta Dirk Strider & Dave Strider
Comments: 2
Kudos: 25





	april in houston

Bro coming home with about ten bags of groceries, locking the deadbolt behind him and declaring, "You're not going out," is the only warning you get that your day-to-day life is about to change. You don't take your chances with a "why?" or a "but Bro, I had this thing" because Bro doesn't fuck with compromise and anyway, you've been secretly hoping he'd come around like this. The streets are starting to feel crazy and every day you've been wondering if you or Bro are next. 

It only takes a day of him being at home without leaving once for you to confirm beyond a doubt that this whole "not going out" thing doesn't just apply to you. Even when you strain your memory, you can't remember a time he ever stayed at home with you for the entire day. It's beyond fucking weird, but it's the weirdness that lets you know he must be serious about this. 

You're curious what changed his mind. For weeks now you've barely discussed the virus with him, even though it dominates every news outlet 24-7 and it's all you and your friends ever talk about. You've wondered if, or when, he'd start taking it seriously, because up until now he's been acting like it's all some kind of hoax. You think maybe it was your middle-aged neighbour accross the hall, who'd died in her apartment before laying undiscovered for two days, that spooked him into action but you can't be sure.

* * *

It doesn't matter, and your relief turns out to be short-lived. Soon, unease settles over the apartment like an itchy blanket. 

You no longer know what to do with yourself when he's within shouting distance literally _all the time_. When he's not, you're happy to mess around in your room for hours on end, chatting with your friends, mixing or stringing together half-hearted raps. You like to think you were getting pretty good at those.

But his presence is overwhelming and impossible to ignore. Now that you can hear him muttering to himself, banging around out there in the kitchen or living room, it doesn't feel right to go on as normal, to not at least try to initiate contact with him. 

Day three you end your chat with John, dump your headset down on your mattress, and force yourself out of your room with heavy feet. You've been doing this several times a day, mostly out of a sense of obligation, but you still haven't gained any ground in getting him to warm up with you. 

"Cunt," he growls, as soon as you step into the living room. 

For a minute there you take that real personal, sure he's talking to you, before he smacks the side of the VCR and you realize he's just bitching at it. 

You forgo a greeting and slip past him to sit on the futon. That VCR is a shitty old dust magnet -- of course it doesn't work. It hasn't even been touched since you were like, six; when he'd park you in front of it with a box of Lucky Charms and play you episodes of _Barney_ and _The Magic School Bus_ he'd taped off PBS. "Free babysitting," he'd say, all smug about it. 

Shit, is that what he's trying to do right now? Make sure you stay out of his face or something? You wonder if you should remind him you can entertain yourself just fine -- you're not six anymore and old episodes of _Barney_ probably ain't gonna cut it unless you're both baked. Hell, does he even remember your last birthday? Does he even know you're fifteen? You stop short of saying any of this out loud.

Now you're thinking about dope. Good weed could make this shit a breeze. It'd probably be pretty nice, actually. Easing all that tension down; just the two of you kicking it, no interruptions. Why hasn't he even thought of that? There's the fact he'd faster smack you upside the head than share his drugs with you but desperate times and all that. Maybe you should put it to him...?

You break your train of thought, and your nervous system gives a little warning jolt when you notice he's already standing over you, glaring. He's got a way of sneaking up on you when you're distracted, without you ever noticing. It's like your body sides with him, betrays all its natural alert systems if he wills it. 

_You've_ got a way of making him mad without knowing what it is you've done wrong. You're guessing this is one of those times.

You shrink back until your shoulders touch the futon. When you speak your voice is smaller, gentle, not that there's anything about you he could possibly construe as threatening. Better to be safe than sorry or whatever it is people say. 

"Hey, so I was thinking--" 

The abruptness with which he snaps, "Well don't," actually stings. He's scowling at your lap, and it dawns on you why he's so annoyed. You were fidgeting, tapping your foot, humming at the same time. He hates all of those things.

You silently raise your palms to him, a small gesture of surrender. Satisfied, he goes back to fucking with the VCR and ignoring you. You watch the hard set of his shoulders from the futon and can only think of one word to describe him: Pissy.

* * *

If you thought he was pissy before, over the next week things don't fare much better. You quickly learn you and your Bro weren't meant to be trapped in this kind of unrelenting, stifling proximity for more than a few hours at a time. You can't even exist without annoying him and you're starting to miss his distance. 

When you were little you used to want for him, pine for him even, in a way that's embarrassing for you to even reflect on now. You're glad he never tolerated, let alone nurtured, that quality in you because it forced you to thrive on your own. To be at peace with the quiet he left you in. What you don't like is that you apparently haven't had a chance to learn how to be better at not getting under his skin. You keep doing it without meaning to, and it leaves you constantly on edge. 

He's still distant with you, just not physically. The harder you try to find a way to connect with him, break him down even a little, the more he seems to view you with disdain. He doesn't want you around, but he also doesn't want to let you alone. When you're making too much noise he snaps at you. When you're not making enough, he eyes you with suspicion. When you're sitting by him, being quiet, he finds something else to be pissed off by -- your posture and skinniness are both popular choices this week. When you slink off to leave him alone, the atmosphere is thick with his disapproval, letting you know without him ever saying anything that he's taking it as a slight.

You're starting to feel like a cornered animal. Running away into the night is beginning to seem like an actual option to you. Judging by the way he stalks around the apartment all day, yanking boxes out of closets and trying to fix shit he hasn't acknowledged in years, it's clear he must be feeling it too. He hates this as much as you do. 

By the end of the first week you're a ball of frayed nerves and can't remember what life was like before this. It seems like a distant dream; a safer monotony you wish for now. You wish you knew what he wanted, so that you could just be that for him, at least try to live in harmony, but it's impossible when squeezing blood out of a stone seems like a simpler task than getting more than ten words out of Bro.

You're beginning to resent him as much as he evidently resents you. By day eight, you won't even venture out of your room to look at him. You've never been an angry dude but isolation with your brother is testing you in ways you never thought possible. 

Before now, it never occurred to you to be mad at him. Not for anything he's done. The past was in the past -- or so you thought -- and you were happy to let sleeping dogs lie. Eight days alone with him has you pretty confident you actually fucking hate him, and one more underhanded remark about your skinny wrists and there's a possibility you'll throw hands. 

But he can't even let you have that. 

In the end, it's him who starts the fight. Maybe he sensed you wanted it, but when he thrusts a sword in your hand, forces you to wrap your fingers around the hilt, and says, "Roof. Now," you're so genuinely angry at the sight of him you forget to be scared. 

* * *

He's lucky you don't stab him in the back on your way up the stairs. 

You follow him with a singlemindedness that's rare for you. When your feet hit the concrete and he rounds on you, easily twirling his sword like it's made of foam, you shift your feet so that you're steady and heft your sword, ready for him.

Your first mistake is waiting for him to make the first move, because that's how it always goes. He even hands you the perfect opportunity to strike at him when he lifts the hem of his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face, then drops his sword in order to pull it over his head completely.

It's a taunt, him showing you your own weakness. You can't, or won't, even take him when he's unarmed. You could kick the sword out of his reach, get the jump on him by whacking him across the back with yours. But you're starting to sweat under the hot midday sun; you can't breathe and your arms and legs feel like lead.

You try to at least keep your sword steady as you hold it out in front of you. You won't let him catch you trembling. You stay in place, watch keenly as he snatches his sword up from the ground, and wait for him to hit you so you can at least pretend to fight back.

His advance is always so fast you never see it coming. You block his first strike and pivot when he immediately follows it up with a hard jab at your hip that hits the bone and busts open your guard. When you drop to your knees, eyes streaming in pain, he swings the flat side of his blade at your head, hitting you square in the ear. It's hot and ringing when he boots you in the shoulder, sending you sprawling to the ground and squinting up into the bright blue sky.

A noise like the air being let out of a tyre escapes your chest. 

When he kicks you in your ass and casually remarks, "That was shit, Dave, even for you," you just see red. You strike out with your foot and somehow manage to connect with his knee. He lets out a hiss and drops to it with a thud.

You toss your sword away and seize your moment to fuck him up while he's down. Every second counts and the only thing stupider than letting him make that first move would be waiting for him to catch you twice. You scramble up on your elbows and launch yourself at him, hooking your arms around his neck and yanking down with all the strength you can muster in your effort to haul him to the ground. 

His muscles are like steel, impossible for you to maneuver with your bare hands. You cuss as you struggle against him, delivering a flurry of blows to his back and shoulder as your frustration at the hopelessness of your situation finally gets the better of you.

You punctuate your final two punches with "fuck" and "you", delivered through clenched teeth, before the world tilts on its axis and he's put you on your ass again. 

His palms lay flat against your shoulders, grinding you down into the hot cement. Your hip is aching and you're pretty sure that warm, wet sensation on your cheek is blood, not sweat. With the sun streaming directly into your eyes, you can only just make out the shape of him above you, broad, unmoving and solid. You squirm and try to kick him -- balls is what you're aiming for -- but he's got your knees trapped between his thighs. 

You turn limp the moment you accept any further fight is pointless. You only got a few hits in because he let you and whatever he's going to do to you now, he'll do it whether you're fighting it or not.

You're almost ready to tell him to just get on with it already, stop dragging out the payback, when he shakes a few strands of hair out of his eyes and says, "Scrappy."

You press your lips together as you try to ascertain his tone. He sounds far from impressed, but less disappointed in you than he's sounded all week. It's probably not an insult. 

Wary, you tap on his knuckles and grumble, "Lemme up, dick. C'mon." You squirm around beneath him, fruitlessly trying to shift his weight off you. 

You barely have time to react before he's off you and promptly disappears, abandoning you to haul your pile of aching bones and sensitive flesh back to your feet alone. You hobble back to the stairwell and pick up his discarded polo along the way, throwing it over one shoulder.

You take your sweet time heading back down to the apartment. If beating the crap out of each other is what it takes for the two of you to co-exist without going insane, you don't know how many more weeks of this you'll be able to survive. 

**Author's Note:**

> shit, what a year. D: i hope you guys are all doing ok <3


End file.
